


Tools

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 08:57:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11332542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Stars, showers, and smut. Krycek first person





	Tools

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Tools by Kix

28 October 1998  
TITLE: Tools  
AUTHOR: Kix  
CATEGORY/RATING: M/K slash, NC17 for language and messy stuff ;-)  
SUMMARY: Stars, showers, and smut. Krycek first person.  
DISCLAIMER: Both Krycek and Mulder belong to me, and I'm gonna sue Chris Carter's ass.  
NOTES AND THANX: Thanx and adoration goes to Te for her help and encouragement so early on. Special thanx and the sex toy of her choice to Alicia for devoting her attention to my baby on "Kix Day"(I think they should make it a national holiday. You all get to dress in black leather and smoke opium. Sound better than Presidents' Day?), for the help with the title, and also for starting the ball rolling on the smut. Without you and your talent for the juicy stuff, Alicia, I wouldn't have had the courage to write what I did. DEDICATION: You didn't know it, but this is for you, Dreamer. For being there for me, for knowing exactly what to say, for being you. You have no idea how much I love you, and I can't thank you enough. Keep happy, darlin'. *mwah*  
FEEDBACK: PLEEAAASE!!!!! Ahem. Feedback would be *much* appreciated. Thank-you ever so, ever so much. To []

* * *

======================================  
Tools  
by Kix  
=====================================

I am bathed in the glow of sunlight. Gentle heat caresses the bare skin of my chest, seeping deep into my sleep-softened muscles. This balmy embrace rouses me from slumber, my eyelids parting as I wake.

And that is when I see him.

Mulder.

He is sound asleep; his eyes closed, expression tranquil, breathing even and sedate. His dark hair contrasts with the white of the pillowcase, the light that drew me from sleep catching the strands of red and gold hidden in the chestnut. In this rested state, the skin around his eyes is relaxed, eradicating many of the lines that have formed there over the years. He looks so much younger like this.

He looks so vulnerable.

His lips fall apart slightly and are graced with a swipe of pink tongue before he sighs.

I wonder what he dreams about.

He is lying close enough that I can feel his breath graze my skin. Close enough that I could touch those lush lips with mine if I craned my neck a little....

But I don't want to wake him.

I've never seen anyone look more at peace than he does at this moment.

Slowly, so as not to disturb him, I turn from my back onto my side. Certain muscles of mine are voicing their complaint after last night's... enthusiastic... escapades. Who'd have ever believed Fox Mulder could be that limber? I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the man I have spent the best part of 4 years obstructing and deluding has such hidden talents. And that he was so eager to share them with me.

Mulder and me... This is what they might call a turnaround for the books. To think of the times he seemed so intent on *killing* me.... And now, I am lying in a motel bed next to him, my cock leaping purely at the sight of him.

I continue my study of him where he is sprawled beside me in a deliciously careless tangle of limbs and bedsheets. His sculpted back is bared to the breeze from the air conditioner; long, trim legs half-twisted in the disheveled blankets, the left bent at the knee and exposed almost to his upper thigh. The sheet is tucked under his hip, pulling the rumpled material over his backside. I can make out the curves of his ass through the creased cloth.

Mmm... I've awoken to worse views in my life....

One well-muscled arm is stretched out towards me, the slender fingers of his hand almost brushing my shoulder; the other is risen behind him, curling around his dark head like a halo.

A *what*?

Uh... let's just say Mulder's running a little short on seraphic qualities.

Moving to sit cross-legged on the firm mattress, I pull my hand over my face, rubbing awareness into my eyes, scratching at rough stubble. My palm drags over my lips and I realize they are slightly swollen and tingling as a result of our fervent kisses.... I must admit, it's been a while since I've been kissed like that. I've never been one for the whole kissing thing. Sure, it's nice but, on the whole, I see it as a prelude to sex. And, quite frankly, I prefer the sex. But with Mulder.... Just that first kiss. That one, devastating, bone-melting kiss... I could have died a happy man.

As it happens, I'm very glad I lived to experience what came after that kiss, but the fact remains: Mulder overwhelmed me. Ironic, really, considering it was I who instigated the contact.

Come to think of it, I incited everything.

But isn't that always the case with us?

I sent him an anonymous email yesterday afternoon. The subject header read "Things are looking up." I can only imagine his reaction when he noticed it amongst his regular aggregation of advertisements for porn sites and dental plans (I wonder which he followed up on... Last I heard the FBI has great dental....) Perhaps his jaw clenched in that way it does when he's angry. He was certainly torn from his habitual slouch, his spine straight, shoulders square, muscles drawn visibly taut like they always are when he's afraid or nervous. And he definitely would have been. He would have been all of those things; afraid, angry, nervous. Because he would have known it was me straight off.

But, evidently, he opened the mail, and he read it, and he met me.

It was such a clear night. The stars were reflected in the paintwork of my "rental" car as I waited for him to arrive at the designated rendezvous.

He was late.

I wasn't surprised.

The night wasn't cold, but the wind brought with it a chill that permeated even the leather jacket I wore. Wishing for two arms to wrap around myself for warmth, I tipped my head to the sky.

It looked so familiar. So unthreatening. A blanket of dense midnight velvet, embracing the earth, protecting her from the extraneous.

The foreign.

The alien.

But I know what our skies really are. An infinite expanse of space in which so many secrets have been and still remain to be discovered. A hiding ground for the unthinkable. The unimaginable. The truth.

A quilt of lies.

Mulder approached me silently. Although I thought I was paying attention, somehow he eluded my consciousness. I was totally oblivious to him until I was suddenly thrown flat on my back over the hood of my car with his hands gripping my throat.

"Must be losing it, Krycek..." he hissed.

Touche. I would have applauded him had I been able to breathe.

"So, what is it this time? Are we still playing Space Invaders?"

The muscles in my neck convulsed under his grip as my lungs fought against the obstruction of my airway. I purled, spluttered, desperately seeking the ability to plead for my release. My hand made the involuntary journey to join his, scratching and clutching at whatever skin I could grasp.

"What?" An impious grin pulled at his lips, baring even, white teeth. "Am I hurting you?"

My spine arched, my hips bucking of their own accord. My entire body took part in the mission to free my neck and take in a lungful of much-needed oxygen. Mulder, his hands occupied, pinned my struggling form to the car by pressing his lower body heavily into mine.

Now, if my spirit hadn't already exited my body and left me watching my face rapidly turn from crimson to purple through a variety of decidedly alarming shades I would have noted the fact that Mulder was lying atop me, his narrow hips between my thighs, his crotch pressed firmly against mine.

As it happened, I didn't have to notice.

Mulder did.

And he released me with a snarl.

I slid from the car to the ground, my chest heaving, my pulse pounding in my brain like the beat of leathered wings within my skull. I coughed, wheezed, gasped for air, and finally captured enough of the precious substance to keep the blackness that had been slowly encroaching from the outskirts of my peripheral vision at bay.

Beside me, he paced.

I spoke, much to the grievance of my throat: "For some people a simple handshake is enough, Mulder." My voice was craggy, like the walls of my trachea had been scoured with sandpaper.

He made a sound of displeasure behind his teeth as he dropped into a crouch by my side. "Yeah, well, I'm what you might call an extremist."

Panting, I sat back against the door of the sedan. I gulped, closing my eyes as I hummed my relief.

In a startling change in attitude, he asked me what I wanted, dropping his ass to the ground and resting his wrists between his splayed legs. His loose-fitting chinos weren't nearly loose enough to conceal what he was trying to hide with 'casually' but obviously strategically placed hands. Although, intruiging as that certainly was, it wasn't exactly foremost in my mind. I was far more interested in why his customary antagonism had suddenly evaporated. He looked exhausted; as if he honestly couldn't be bothered to stand and protest anymore.

I took a breath, looking around me at the barrenness of the desolate warehouse lot. Overhead, the rumbling of an aircraft engine could be heard. Both Mulder and I immediately tensed, glancing upwards momentarily to affirm that it was only a harmless passenger plane.

Our perhaps paranoid but not irrelevant fears abated, we each returned our attention to the other.

For a second, our gazes met. His eyes were the deep, rich color of mahogany. Incandescent, blazing brown. Eyes like flames.

Mine, I have been told, are a glacier mixture of blue and green.

Fire and ice. Opposites. Enemies. Equals.

Both can burn.

"I've got information for you, Mulder," I said finally.

He looked away, lips pursed, breathing heavily through his nose. The image was reminiscent of an angered bull. An infuriated animal trapped in an arena, no place to run and nothing to do but follow what years of breeding and training had taught him.

Mulder is the Toro and They are the Matador. They hold the Muleta in Their hands. The truth, with its red and yellow, being passed and swiped and maneuvered before him. And Mulder chases. Not, as it is erroneously believed, because he is attracted to the vibrant red of the cape, but because bulls have a natural instinct to charge instantly at a moving object.

Mulder just follows his inclination.

He can't help himself.

"Information regarding whom?" I could see the fear in his expression. He knew that every time he accepts what he is given he is drawn deeper into the game.

He falls victim to Them.

And the Matador succeeds in his mission to weaken the bull before the kill.

Only, this time... this time, I am holding the cape.

Mulder became impatient with my hesitation, and jumped to his feet in one fluid movement.

"Mulder..." I called after him when it hit home that he was leaving.

His shoes turned the gravel under his feet as he spun to face me. "Look, Krycek, you're lucky I even came here tonight. I followed your lead the last time, despite my better judgement I might add, and it got me fuck all."

"Are you sure about that, Mulder?" I cut in. I knew he had gained something that night. If he hadn't, then he wouldn't have been here and I would have been face down ass up in a prison cell somewhere.

"I'm empty-handed, Krycek," he said, raising his arms high in a dramatic shrug as if proving his point.

He should have known by then that the 'evidence' he seeks is not substantial. "Well maybe what you were looking for, what I wanted you to find, wasn't something you could hold, but hold *onto*."

Did he understand? Did he understand why I came to him then? Did he understand why I needed him?

The night air gathered substance, came alive. The space between the two of us was seething with energy.

Mulder's mouth opened, closed and opened once more. He was motionless for a moment before he dipped his chin.

I stood as quickly as my unsettled equipoise would allow.

"All you've done from the beginning is piss me around, Krycek," he said. There was something in his tone that prevented me from interrupting him.

"Why do you continue to do this?" He looked up at me with those sad, glassy eyes. "You just keep on, and on, and on. Time after fucking time you return and you say that you're here to help. Here as an 'ally.' You try to make me trust you. And then you just..." He played with the worn cuff of his jacket. "You just turn around and stab me in the back, Krycek. You always..."

I had never heard this from him before. Never. Oh, he had displayed his dislike and disdain for me on many occasions. He had voiced his objections over my methods and my morals both verbally and physically.

But those confrontations had always been abusive.

He was being... honest.

He had changed. He was not the same man I used to know. The voice was cold, the stance was weary, the eyes were resigned more than they were haunted.

He'd grown up.

His movements suddenly became animated, his words infused with strength. "Goddamn it, Krycek, *why*? Why do you *always* come back?"

Panicked, I desperately clutched at clauses and phrases, fighting for the words to construct a sentence that both answered his question and extricated me from the embarrassing situation he had put me in.

How was I to deal with Mulder's emotions?

I could deal with his anger.

But anger isn't an emotion; anger is a condition.

So I told him. I explained to him the situation that had arisen, the occurrence momentous enough that I had jeopardized my position, my life, to contact him without orders to do so. I recited names, dates, times, statistics, facts like I was reading from the pages of a book. A wonderfully imaginative Science-Fiction novel. A story filled with fable and fantasy, written to thrill, to entertain. I spoke like what I was telling him wasn't true.

Like it wasn't real.

Mulder stood in inert silence. Not one muscle in the whole, lean, length of him so much as twitched as I relayed my horrifying tale. His face remained expressionless.

Until I finished.

And then he spoke. "And I'm supposed to believe that?"

"You believed me the last time, didn't you?" I remarked.

He lunged at me, taking me roughly by the shoulders and tackling me to the graveled pavement. He yelled that I was a liar as I caught sight of his raised fist just in time to counter it with my own before it collided with my jaw. With one solid push to his arm, I was able to flip his upper body from above me to the ground beside me. Not wasting a moment, I quickly straddled his torso, trying to pin his fists--a difficult task with only one arm. As a last resort, I raised my knee and brought it down hard in his lower abdomen, hitting him in the exact spot that takes the wind from your lungs, the blood from your face, the feeling from every part of your body for a few moments before sending a fierce shock of pain along your spine to spread into every limb, joint, muscle. Mulder's skin immediately paled as his struggles waned.

His mouth fell open, a dragging sound from deep within his chest the only noise in the world.

It was his turn to gasp for breath.

"You asked for that," I hissed, moving off him as his body crunched into a fetal position, his eyes open excruciatingly wide, moisture forming above the lids but refusing to fall.

Mulder looked like he was about to have a brain hemorrhage. And I *really* didn't feel like explaining his death to Miss Daisy... My newly negotiated "contract" isn't what you would call flexible, and we all know how important Mulder is to Them right now....

I took him by the shoulders and told him to straighten his back, move into a sitting position, keep his shoulders parallel with his hips, try and breathe through his nose, take short, sharp inhalations.

And while he did that, I told him I wasn't lying. I swore to him I was genuine. I pleaded with him to take me seriously.

"Why should I?" He asked as he forced his breathing to regulate, if only, I'm sure, to prevent me from feeling the satisfaction he thought I would in hurting him.

He should have known the fact that I'd obviously hurt his pride would satisfy me more....

I scuttled over to sit before him, grasping his knee with my hand to capture his attention as I spoke. He flinched at my touch. "Because I'm not playing games with you anymore, Mulder. I'm for real this time."

He laughed. "Oh, sure you are. Krycek, you know and I know that nothing is ever for real in this world. Everything is one big lie. One big, fucking, authenticated lie."

That is where I lost my temper. "Jesus, Mulder, will you just *think* about it? Come on, *use* that famous brain." I took his face between the prosthesis and my hand. "What do I have to gain from lying to you? Tell me. Tell me why I would risk coming here, risk meeting you. Every day is crucial, Mulder. Why would I waste my time with this just to have a little fun with your psyche, huh? I care more about the fate of the world than about what goes on in that fucked up little head of yours. So, tell me. Tell me why I would do it, Mulder."

"Oh, fuck off, Krycek," he said, his voice dejected instead of threatening.

I feel like the little boy who cried wolf. I've fooled him so many times in the past that he can't accept what I have to say anymore. I asked for this--so why does it hurt so much?

"No!" I growled, "Tell me, Mulder. Tell me what you think I get out of this."

"I don't know. What *do* you get out of it?"

And that was the question, wasn't it? Why *did* I contact him? Were there not other ways of dealing with the powers that be? Of all the avenues I had available to me, why did I always feel the need to run back to Mulder? Why was it him I used every time I needed something?

Why did I use him like that? Like I always do? Like everyone does?

And that is when I felt it. That is when I *really* felt it. For, I think, the first time in my life, I experienced real compassion for someone. The kind that starts as a tiny inkling of realization deep within your belly and spreads, fed by memories of deception, pangs of guilt, into a tidal wave of sorrow.

I don't believe I had ever felt sympathy like that before.

But was it sympathy?

Could it have been empathy?

I didn't know how to cope with the emotions he was provoking in me. I didn't know how to stop myself from tumbling into the gaping precipice before me.

I was falling into him.

xXx

I clung to the edge, my knuckles white, tips of my fingers red as I struggled to keep a hold. Desperately fighting a force that seemed as natural--powerful--as gravity, I hauled myself upwards. I scrambled past the ledge. I was safe.

Or not me, so much.... Mulder was safe. I think part of me actually wanted to fall.

Look at that--my heart was suicidal....

I shuffled to my feet, making my way to my car. I had to leave. There was no way in hell I could take any more of Mulder. He was like a fucking Labrador pup; all soulful, brown eyes and whimpers.

But then I heard a sonorous laugh from behind me. "What, no kiss goodbye this time?"

I turned to face him with such suddenness that he flinched and lurched backwards.

If he was going to play the asshole here, then why the hell should I run away and let him think he was getting to me? After all, *I* wasn't the one making this difficult. I didn't *want* to hurt him... I just needed to.

"Okay then, Mulder, why don't we try it from a different angle this time, then?" I pushed at his shoulder with my finger. "Let's forget about my reasons behind organizing this little reunion. I think I'd like to know why *you* came here tonight."

Mulder stumbled over his words.

"I mean, like you said, you had no intention of actually believing what I had to tell you. I'm only here to fuck you around, am I not? So why would you be here?"

He told me he didn't know the answer to that.

It seems to me this man spends his life searching for answers when he wouldn't know one if it slapped him in the face...

...or kicked him in the stomach.

"So why *did* you come here tonight, Mulder?" I asked.

Mulder snorted, obviously agitated but too confused to know why.

"No, strike that," I adopted a smug grin, knowing full well what I was doing and where this conversation was leading. "Why did you come here alone?"

Mulder's cheeks hollowed slightly, his eyelashes fluttering together in a few rapid blinks. "I... I... don't know..."

"Yes, you do, Mulder," I said, suddenly appreciative of my newly roughened voice when even *I* was affected by the soft, throaty timbre... Well, Mulder's reaction to it, anyway. I wanted to capture his expression at that moment and frame it, it was such a spectacle.

"I... I know I could be in danger and that... I... I mean, I don't want to bring other people into the fray... I... This is my...."

I put a hand to his mouth. It took him a moment to notice, and as he continued to talk the softness of his lips moved over my skin. I let my fingers linger there, the pad of my thumb testing the resiliency of that captivating little mole on his right cheek.

"Krycek, what are you--"

I hushed him, allowing my hand to slide slowly from his mouth over the silk of his clean-shaven face, my fingers curling into his hair as they moved past the shell of his ear.

Mulder attempted to speak again, but I couldn't allow that.

"Don't argue, Mulder..." I pushed my hand through the thickness of hair until the crown of his head was cupped in my palm, and I pulled him to me, much like I'd wanted to the last time we met. But this time, instead of a chaste peck on his cheek, I sought contact with those mesmerizing lips.

And he reciprocated.

I thought I'd at least have to persuade him a little....

Tilting his head to the side, his mouth yielded under the pressure of the kiss and I used the opportunity to flick my tongue past his open lips. After a brief moment, his teeth slid apart and I felt myself being consumed by heat as he allowed me access.

Oh, God in heaven, he tasted like... coffee. Aromatic, bitter, smoky. A taste that wasn't quite that... A taste so vague, so delicate, it was more of a perfume.

He sighed involuntarily, a gust of warm air gliding into my mouth.

Cinnamon... I could taste cinnamon too.

Faint, sweet, tantalizing.

Cinnamon flavored coffee.

I prefer vanilla, but cinnamon wasn't bad... it wasn't bad at all.

All of a sudden, his arms snaked around me, pulling at my shoulder blades to bring me closer to him. I was more than willing to oblige.

How long have I been waiting for this, I thought as I felt his palms ride firmly down over the worn leather of my jacket until he had my ass in his hands.

Mulder's hands were on my ass. I almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation, but the feeling of astonishment soon disintegrated when he pulled again, and our hips clashed.

My brain liquefied. I felt every thought I had once been capable of entertaining drizzle from my mind and pool in a sea of druggy pleasure as blood rushed from my head to my groin.

Mulder's long, low moan sent a wave of lust sweeping over me, and I snagged his waist in the crook of my arm, propelling him around and back until he was sandwiched between the car and me.

Any thoughts of controlling the situation having vanished, all I wanted--needed--was to feel his skin against mine. Yanking his T-shirt free from his chinos, I slipped my fingers under the white cotton, running my hand up that firm chest, following with my mouth--licking and biting first one nipple, then the other, with an intensity bordering on desperation. His shirt was gathered under his arms, and I considered freeing him of his jacket so the garment could be discarded. But that would have required me to cease my exploration of him....

Not a good idea when I had become addicted to the sound of his tiny, breathy groans.

Dropping to my knees, I continued my worship even as my fingers fumbled at his waistband. I half expected some renewed resistance at that point, but apparently, he was as far beyond that as I was. The loose trousers dropped easily to his ankles, and the velvet head of his cock sprang free through the opening in his boxers. It butted against my searching hand like an animal seeking affection, and I was more than willing to indulge. Bending lower, I nuzzled his cotton-clad hips, drinking in his essence and trying to memorize every sensation in case I never got this close again.

I inhaled deeply. Laundry detergent mingled with the luxuriant fragrance of Mulder. A soft, buttery smell somewhere between sugar and salt. He smelled like... milk. Not the pasteurized, chemically treated crap we pour over our breakfast cereal in the morning. The smell of fresh milk. Warm, rich, sweet and... something. That secret, essential component that you can never quite place.

It's like describing how water tastes--you can't, and you'll never understand until you try it for yourself.

It was then that I heard my name on his lips.

Not Krycek.

Alex.

He called me Alex.

His tone was frantic, pleading. I found myself fearing that he had finally come to his senses. That he wanted me to stop.

But then his hands came to clasp the back of my neck, urging me to continue, and I realized that his pleas were not for the purpose of stopping me; he wasn't objecting.

The man was fucking begging.

I whispered an expletive or two, half sure my own dick was liable to explode through my pants at any moment as I found myself growing almost impossibly harder. What was he doing to me?

"Alex, *please,*" he said. Lord, I thought I was going to die.

I found the elasticized waistband of the shorts and tugged, watching as the line of dark hair from under his navel widened into a thatch of crisp curls. I gently lifted the material in order to free his erection and then pushed the boxers past his knees where they plummeted to join the puddle of cloth at his feet.

I sat back on my heels to look at him, skimming my eyes over the muscled chest (still interestingly half-obscured under the flimsy cotton of his shirt,) nipples pebbled from the cold and arousal, the delicate curve of his toned abdomen, the prominence of the bones of his slender hips. My eyes rested finally on the twitching cock imploring me touch it.

I held him in place with the prosthesis, feeling his gaze drop from the sky to the top of my head when he felt the strange texture of the artificial limb on his skin.

I didn't want to look up and see his pity. I had more important things to worry about.

I pressed my lips to his belly, opening my mouth to trail my tongue over his taut flesh, dipping into his navel, nipping at heated skin as I slowly made my way to my target.

Mulder made a sound of complaint, his hips squirming restlessly under my rousing mouth. "Oh, God, Alex, just pl--" His words were lost in a sob as I breathed a cloud of humid air over him from where I hovered, drawing out the time, teasing him, testing him.

Raising my hand from where it had found a place on the door of the sedan, I languorously stroked the back of my forefinger along his entire length, stopping at the rim to swipe a pearl of moisture with my thumb.

I looked up then, just to make sure that he was watching me.

Oh, yes, he was watching me.

I brought my thumb to my mouth, listening to his ragged breath as I took it past my lips, tasting him. He let his head fall back against the roof of the car, his Adam's apple bobbing like a buoy at the mercy of the surf as he swallowed. I took my wet thumb and ran it slowly underneath him as I let my tongue paint lazy patterns over his head. He cried out, and I needed no further encouragement. I closed my lips over him, tapping the blunt tip with the point of my tongue as I took him deeper into my mouth. I pulled him in all the way, entrapping him in dark, damp heat, and then drew back along him, releasing him from my snare. He whimpered as the air assaulted the sensitized skin moistened by my saliva, and I paused to let the effects of that sound pass through me in a shiver. Then I lowered my mouth again, planting a soft, wet kiss at the top before wringing moans from him with playful licks and gentle scrapes of my front teeth. From above me, those moans became words. He spoke my name, swore, cried out instructions that I found myself following without a thought.

The syrupy breeze that his voice had become hypnotized me.

I brought his cock into my mouth once more, circling his shaft with my tongue for a few seconds before tightening around him, sucking lightly as I felt his blood rushing past my cheeks. I teased that knot of nerves at his underside, reveling in his sharp gasp. His hips gyrated, his body twisting in a rhythm I countered with the movement of my head; a movement he stilled by gripping my hair and dragging my body upwards. I let out a small yelp of surprise.

"I said stop," he whispered, clutching my shoulders as my knees buckled with the sudden weight they were forced to bear and I fell against him for support.

"Why?" I asked.

He kissed me, his lips bruising as his hands rose under the sweater I wore, skilled fingers seeking and stroking. He scraped short nails lightly over my right nipple, sending flickering stabs of delight on a path that led directly to my groin as his other hand left my torso to cup me through my pants.

I lost myself in his touch.

When I came back to my senses, I found that he was no longer stroking me through my trousers, but that he had managed to ease down the zipper and was letting his hand wander inside....

I saw his eyes widen as a smile flirted with his lips.

"I guess that answers my boxers/briefs question..." he chuckled, his fist clasping my penis as his voice embraced me in much the same way.

I thrust into his hand, my tongue tangling with his once again, as I welcomed him into another demanding kiss. I caught his lower lip between my teeth and bit down when he dropped his palm to tease my aching balls. Mulder's hiss of pain was tempered with pleasure as I soothed the bite, the metallic tang of his blood lingering at the back of my throat like the burn of strong liquor.

He moved his cheek over mine, rubbing against the grain of stubble as he reached for my earlobe with his mouth. He nibbled, stroked, sucked; all the while his deft fingers were exploring me, finding the spots that caused me to cry into the warm, fragrant skin of his neck.

It was as if he could read my thoughts before my mind even processed them. My voice was apparently operating without prior screening too. I heard myself speak before I knew what I was going to say.

And Mulder immediately released my ear, his hands stilled in their expedition. His answer was a loud groan that dwindled into a barely audible hum as I nipped the vitreous skin over his throat. I pulled him to me as I stumbled sideways. My pants slipped, encumbering my legs as I dragged him with me. He shuffled as quickly as his bound ankles would allow. I think I would have found the situation comical if I hadn't been so fucking desperate to bend him over that car and bury myself in him. "Krycek--wait--" He gripped my waist, trying to stop me.

I shoved him hard against the car once more, hearing and ignoring his wince when I aggravated his bruised abdomen. My hand dropped between his thighs, flitting across his perineum and up until I found what I was searching for. I slipped the tip of my middle finger past the resisting entrance.

He all but collapsed at my feet.

I pushed a little further, bending the first knuckle slightly, feeling Mulder's involuntary tightening at the invasion.

"Kry--Mmmm...." I wriggled my finger all the way inside. "Aahh--Ale--"

His forehead dropped to rest on my shoulder, his quiet moaning scattered with the occasional comprehensible word. His breathing was heavy to the point of sounding labored, his face contorting with the movements my finger made inside him.

"I want to fuck you, Mulder," I told him simply, rubbing the pad of my finger over his prostate, to which his body answered with a quick buck of hips that brought our cocks in contact. Skin against skin. Fire feeding fire. His sharp cry cut through the still night.

"I said yes," he sighed. "Yes." The word became a frantic chant punctuated only with hiccuppy moans that brought me to the brink each time.

"Yes?" I pushed unruly hair from his forehead with my nose, dropping my already tender lips to his temple, kissing my way behind his ear as my hand became ruthless, almost violent.

He threw his head back, a thin sheen of sweat glinting in the surprisingly bright moonlight.

"Now?" I prompted.

He nodded, eyes shut tight, mouth slack.

"You sure?" I smiled. "You know, we don't have to if you don't--" His shout drowned the rest of my words.

"PLEASE!"

I surrendered, my finger leaving him as swiftly as possible without inflicting pain and my hand reaching into my jacket pocket where I knew there was something for... emergencies.

Mulder glanced at me, his chest heaving, his eyes crinkling as he began to laugh. "Jesus, Krycek, you're as transparent as a sheet of glass."

I held the tube in my palm, thumbing the cap off. I refrained from pointing out that he didn't appear to have seen through me.

I squirted a liberal amount of the lube onto my fingers as I looked once again into the face of my enemy, my opponent, my--lover? His eyes were heavy lidded, the pupils devouring the iris--now but a shimmering outline of gold, like gutter pen on a silk painting. His cheeks were flush; his lips parted, ripe, inviting...

I concentrated on warming the K-Y between my thumb and fingers, until I felt his hand on mine, sliding through the cool gel, moving it between our palms, helping me in the task.

The bastard.

The fucking bastard.

Why couldn't he let me do this my way?

Why did he have to make me feel more than I should?

I knew if I looked him in the eye then, I wouldn't be able to turn away. If I looked at him, I would never be in control of myself ever again. If I looked at him... I would feel things I am not capable of feeling. So I didn't look at him. I closed my eyes, focusing on the slippery slide of his fingers over mine, the increasing stimulation of my body lulling my mind into a state of calm.

His hand left mine and my cock was once again taken in his fist, his long fingers now sticky, the slickness mingling with my own moisture. I turned him, pressing him into the polished smoothness of the car's metalwork and before long I was caught in a landslide of sensation, his body accepting me.

And it was bliss. Achingly sweet and exquisitely hot. Too hot to bear and yet so utterly irresistible.

Mulder's body pushed back instinctively, taking me deep. His hands curved behind him, blindly grasping for me, meaningless whispers insistent in their onslaught, spiders spinning an intricate web of ecstasy around my mind.

I was so close... I had been so close for so long. Never fully realizing how tightly the spring was coiled. Never allowing myself to let go.

Still not allowing myself.

I felt my hand taken by his again, drawn down his torso, brought to the critically throbbing erection that felt like it was searing the flesh of my palm. He moaned long, loud, curling his fingers around mine, guiding me. Finding his rhythm, I moved my hips in tandem. I stroked my hand along his length as I was gripped by the strong muscles encircling me.

So tight. So hot. So much. Sweet, sweet torment.

Gaining momentum, losing control, I finally felt him convulsing around me as his cock swelled suddenly in my palm and he came, bucking, moaning, screaming.

And I thought I was in heaven before? His orgasm elicited mine. Detonation.

Sunset. The colors of the Gods. A sky the shades of ruby and garnet and amethyst. Clouds in the distance sweetening as if they were dipped in the same slow syrup that was swallowing me. Shimmering mauve flitting behind my eyes, a taste like burnt caramel playing on my tongue. And the sun. Glowing orange. Gold. White.

Me.

I became that sun; a blazing, coruscating star. Flaming. Burning.

And then I was extinguished.

They say, that if you listen very carefully, you can hear the 'hiss' as the sun meets the sea on the western horizon.

Did Mulder hear?

Afterwards, I was caught in that delicious colorless haze where awareness is but a tiny spark of light buried deep inside. Where you know it's there, but you don't quite know how to find it yet. Where your body sings, and your mind hums, and everything you ever knew dies in this feeling of elation. Where you slowly, eventually rise to the surface.... Watching the light glisten on the skin of the water before your head breaks free and you take in that first deep, clean breath.

I was on the ground, I realized. The paintwork of the sedan was cool against my cheek, and as I shifted, sharp stones caught the bared skin of my upper thighs. I felt tiny trickles of warm liquid fall from the small scrapes, and, to be perfectly honest, I didn't give a flying fuck.

Mulder was on his knees. His head was dipped to the ground, shoulders loose, hands folded around my arm like he was afraid I was about to leave. Like he wanted to keep me there.

I spoke his name.

And he looked up at me.

He smiled. A long, slow smile.

I didn't quite know what to do next.

"Uh... That was..." Mulder attempted, and I nodded, knowing there wasn't an adjective in the English language or otherwise that described what that was.

"Yeah," he sighed, letting his head loll. Stunned smile, heavy eyes; the man looked stoned.

I liked it.

I heard a soft soughing emanating from him, and for a frightening moment I thought he was crying. I had no idea why I thought it, but I thought it nonetheless.

"Wh... Mulder?" I inquired, and when he looked up at me, I saw he was laughing. He wasn't just snickering, or even chuckling. He was practically doubled up with piss-yourself laughter. How did he have the energy to do that?

He fell forward, the mellow tones of his voice vibrating over my shoulder as his arms encircled my neck.

"What?" I asked, thoroughly confused as to what the hell was so funny.

He raised his head, his dazzling grin taking me by the shoulders and shaking me into a stupor. He closed his eyes, struggling to calm down long enough to talk: "I just ... got fucked ... by a wanted felon ... on the hood of ... a stolen car..." he told me, and I felt laughter rumbling in my own belly as his lips descended and he snatched the outburst into his mouth.

I forgot to ask how he knew the car was stolen....

Mulder took a few moments to compose himself before he pulled away, rising to his feet on unsteady legs. He bent at the waist, grabbing his pants and shorts as he turned and began to step away. And I got my first good look at that gorgeous backside. Two globes of perfect, firm flesh sheathed in flawless skin, muscles rippling as he walked.

That sight destroyed a good few brain cells.

The boxers were drawn up, the chinos following in quick succession. I think he eventually realized that he was alone in his journey, and spun to face me.

"Where... Where are you going?" I asked, suddenly panicked. Was he leaving?

He took a breath as if to speak, and then paused. "I... don't know," he said carefully, as if testing his voice.

I felt something pull at my chest, something that felt strangely like hurt, but it couldn't be that.... What had I expected? I expected him to stay? To sweep me off my feet and ride away with me into the night?

Of course not. This ain't no romance novel and I ain't no adoring heroine.

But I'd at least expected... a goodbye?

"Where do you *want* to go?" he asked.

I felt a numbing tingle drip from the core of my brain and along my spine. Had he just said what I thought he just said?

"C'mon, Alex." He offered his hand to me, gesturing for me to stand.

Yes. Apparently he had.

XxX

I don't think either of us knew where we were going. We just drove. We got in his car, and we drove. I had been idly staring out into the blurred landscape, bushes by the roadside glowing a metallic blue in the moonlight, like aluminum foil under a tinted bulb, when I noticed the motel's green logo in the distance.

My heart thudded in my throat. A motel. A room. For the night.

Impure thoughts?

Bless me father, for I have sinned.

I reached out to grasp Mulder's arm, and he started, jumping as I disturbed him from his absorption. "Mulder..." I said, and he looked at me.

"What?"

I pointed to the sign.

And Mulder swallowed heavily, apparently weighing the pros and cons before he bit back his doubts and changed lanes.

Mulder told me to wait in the car as he went into the lobby to check us into a room. I was surprised, and a little touched, to find that he trusted me enough not to take his car and run for it.

Then again, his brain still wasn't firing on all cylinders, so I don't know that I should have taken it to mean anything in particular....

I watched the glass doors swing open as Mulder stepped through them, looking left and then right as if he was expecting an ambush. With a nod of his head he invited me to get out of the car and join him.

I wonder if good ol' Uncle Sam footed the bill...

Our room was in the block opposite the lobby, overlooking what was supposed to constitute "luxury heated pool" but didn't quite manage it. Neither of us spoke as we scaled the winding staircase and moved along the walkway to room 409.

I could feel his heat by my side.

I could smell him.

Oh, shit, he smelt like sweat and sex and Mulder.

I picked up my pace, and he followed suit.

401\. 403. 405. 407.

"Key," I said as I reached 409, and he hastily thrust the plastic rectangle at me. I pushed the card into the slot and cursed when the red light blinked and the door remained locked.

If I didn't get him inside that room soon I was gonna do something unimaginable up against the green railings on the balcony.

Okay, so it wasn't entirely unimaginable...

"Here." He nudged me aside. "Allow me. There's a knack to it. Eight years in the field, you pick it up...."

Yeah, well, I've rarely had the luxury of motel rooms, Fox.

The green light flashed, and there was a dull clunk as the lock was deactivated. "See?" he beamed, an annoyingly self-confident toss of the head preceding the turning of the door handle as he slowly--*too* slowly--stepped inside.

And I pounced.

I closed the door behind me with my foot as I pressed Mulder into the nearest stationary--or at least semi-stationary--object I could find. It was the round, fake pine table to the right of the door in front of the window.

I had Mulder pinned on a *table*.

Mulder yanked my jacket from my shoulders as his long legs encircled my waist. I drew his T-shirt over his head, throwing the garment behind me as I looked down at him. Strong, square, swimmer's shoulders. Jesus, he has *fantastic* shoulders. I've always liked a lovely pair of shoulders....

"Alex, I have... a suggestion," he panted, his back arching off the hard tabletop, his rapidly swelling cock prodding my stomach as he began to grind himself into me.

I was all ears.

"Shower," he said.

Sex and water: *always* a good combination.

I pulled him up, hustling him into the bathroom. I heard him flick the light switch, and the spotlights blared as the extractor fan whirred into action.

He's tan, I realized as I saw his skin for the first time in proper lighting. His skin was honey-gold, his chest lightly fuzzed with chocolate-brown hair. His nipples were a couple of shades darker than his skin, and his lower abdomen was already a swollen purplish-green where I'd kicked him earlier.

But bruising was good...

"Will you at least take your sweater off?" he asked me, crossing his arms over his chest awkwardly, as if he was embarrassed by my observing him. Or perhaps not, considering what we had done less than an hour ago....

I mulled it over for a second, and donned what I *know* is a killer of a smile: Mouth turned up at the corners just-so, the left side of my lower lip sucked in slightly so I'm nearly-but-not-quite pouting. "No," I said. "Not yet."

And then I told him to take off his pants.

I felt like an Army General whose troops were on inspection. I almost told Mulder to "drop and give me 20". I've never been one for role-play, but oh *man* I could get to like it.

Mulder did as he was told, just like a good boy.

A very good boy.

He kicked off his shoes, stepped out of his chinos and peeled off his socks, for which I was thankful--stockinged feet and bare legs? Nuh-uh.

*What* was that peeking out from the curtain of his boxers?

I nodded towards his shorts, and he shook his head, motioning towards me.

I looked to the floor.

I didn't know if I was ready for this; ready for him to see it.

And he seemed to understand, because his soothing voice found me and he told me it was okay.

So, I tugged at the bottom of my sweater, dragging it upwards as quickly as I could because I knew that if I hesitated I wouldn't--couldn't--go through with it.

There was silence. My sweater fell to the floor.

"Take it off, Alex," he said, and I looked up. He wanted me to take off the prosthesis?

"Take it off," he repeated.

After a few moments in which I collected my courage, I did as he asked, carefully removing the artificial limb with clumsy yet well-practiced ease.

I saw Mulder wince.

"Jesus..." he covered his mouth with his hand, shaking his head as if discounting the evidence of my injury even now that he could see the mutilated limb, the thickening of scar tissue, the wasting of what was left of the muscle.

He was feeling guilty. I hadn't seen that telltale flickering behind his irises since the Barry incident.

How dare he feel guilty over this?

"If..." I cleared my throat, hiding the crack in my voice that could have sounded like tears instead of the anger it was. "I can put... my, uh, shirt back on if..."

I heard Mulder swear under his breath as he shook his head again. "No, no, it's just..."

"It's ugly."

Mulder's eyes widened. "No. No, it's... it's not," he said, his bare feet slapping against the tiles as he walked towards me. "It's not ugly, Alex. It's... Does... Does it hurt?"

I shrugged, watching his fingers flex, knowing he wanted to touch it.

"The... I read somewhere that... amp... amputees can sometimes feel... think they...."

I stopped him in his struggle, knowing what he was asking. "I can't explain it. It's like pins and needles; when your arm falls asleep. It sometimes feels like that. Makes you want to shake it out, and you try, but it's not there. And, yeah, it does hurt, sometimes. That's the worst. It's confusing. Like physical discomfort, only it eats at you like emotional or mental pain, so you don't know whether it's your mind or your body that's hurting. You don't know how to deal with it. It's like 'do I take a Tylenol or see a shrink?'"

It suddenly hit me that I was discussing the woes of losing a limb with Fox Mulder. 'Spooky' didn't come into it.

Mulder took a breath, then placed his hand on my left shoulder. Warm, dry, slightly rough. I looked to my feet, but he tilted my chin back upwards, telling me to look at him.

I wanted to. But I still couldn't risk him seeing me.

He pressed his lips to mine softly, briefly, before flitting to my jaw, my throat, my collarbone, my chest. Gentle, cotton bud kisses. Then the slick of a tongue over my nipple, a scrape of teeth over my ribcage, as if he were playing an instrument. I felt his breath on my upper arm before he ran a slow trail down to the base of the stump, a couple of inches above where my elbow should be.

"I can't feel it, Mulder," I rasped when he began to kiss the coarse scar tissue. I wish I could.

He told me to hush, his hands circling my waist, his fingers finding the button of my pants as he moved to continue his ministrations over my stomach, his plush lower lip like a satin cushion sweeping over my skin.

Somewhere along the line, we must have moved. Stripped to the skin--when did *that* happen?--I found myself standing by the pearl-white tub, Mulder sliding the last vestige of clothing over his hips before wordlessly helping me in my battle with the shower handle.

Oh God he was naked. He was absolutely nude, au naturel, in the buff, N-A-K-E-D. Every last inch of that sleek, delectable body was right at my oh so eager fingertips, there for the taking.

So I took it.

With the steaming spray of the shower washing over us, I could barely distinguish between the fluid smoothness of Mulder's flesh and the water. I had never realized that hot water tastes sweeter than cold before....

Both finally satiated, we stumbled out of the bathroom and into the beckoning bed. Not before, of course, we had engaged in innovative new methods of drying off.... And, despite my desire to watch a sexually satisfied, freshly showered Mulder doze by my side, to savor the time I had--I fell asleep. I don't remember the last time I felt safe enough for that to happen so easily.

I don't remember the last time I felt this well-rested.

Tearing my eyes away from the man by my side, I slip out from under the lightweight sheet, the short pile carpeting rough under my feet as I stand. Taking care not to make a sound, I pad through the room into the bathroom where our clothes were abandoned the night before. I quickly reattach the prosthesis, and then dress. My pants and sweater are slightly wet from last night--I think Mulder got carried away and yanked the shower head from it's cradle, dousing the floor. I pull them on, shivering as the dampness chills my heated skin. There is a rip in the seam of the right leg of my khakis, no doubt where a jagged stone has caught the fabric sometime during our encounter in the warehouse lot.

I approach the sink, turning on the faucet and splashing my face with water, moistening my parched lips and rinsing my mouth out before drinking for a little while.

Flicking droplets from my hand, I look up into the mirror, scrutinizing the reflection I find there.

Dark, close-cropped hair--cut for easy maintenance, not appearance. Large, heavily-lashed, blue-green eyes. Chiseled features.

Past the handsome physiognomy that I've learned to use to my advantage, I notice that I've aged since I last looked at myself like this. Fine wrinkles crease the skin around my eyes, my lips are a touch thinner, and at my temples, the tiny, almost invisible strands at my hairline look suspiciously like gray.

The transformation isn't dramatic. It's barely noticeable. But it's there, and it's like a symbol of another change. It's emblematic of my emotional and mental aging. Of my awakening to cold, hard facts: that to reach my own goals I have to allow myself to become the tool of others. That I have to make others my tools.

Mulder's been an obstacle, a challenge, a... an option. He's never been my *tool*.

Until now.

I've always known I would have to make sacrifices. I was willing to. And it was only a matter of time before my own beliefs fell into that category.

Mulder isn't the only one who's grown up.

After pulling my boots on, I make my way back into the bedroom.

Mulder is still asleep, but he has moved. He is sprawled on his back, his long limbs spread across the mattress, occupying the space I recently vacated. I stand for a moment, watching his lightly furred chest rise and fall, wanting to smooth the unruly hair from his forehead, thinking how he'll be angry when he awakens to find me gone.

He'll think I've betrayed him. That last night was an act, an order.

It's inevitable. He never understands. He never recognizes things for what they are.

I can't stay. He will never have any idea how much I want to, but I can't.

I've given in to enough of my impulses lately.

Bending into a crouch, I snatch my jacket from the ground and stand again. Reaching into the pocket, I take the crumpled sheet of paper with the address and relevant information, and place it on the nightstand.

Mulder will find it, and assume it's my take on a "Dear John...." But I have no doubt that he'll follow the lead.

So much depends on it.

On him.

Treading softly to the door, I turn the handle, slinging my jacket over my shoulder when I am halfway through the frame.

I take one last look at the figure in the bed, drinking in the sight as completely as possible. I have a feeling it's going to be a long time before I see it again.

It will likely be the last time, considering where I'm sending him with that information.

And where I'm going now.

But I don't want to think about that.

I leave. I saunter along the open-air corridor, the chilly early morning breeze ruffling my ungelled hair, and I squint against the sun's glare.

I glance at my watch.

Time to make a phone call. I've got some talking to do.

-End-

Stroke me, flame me, point out those mistakes at or 

xXx

Reality is for people who can't face drugs

xXx  
All I want is destruction/   
Wanna see it crumble beneath my toes/   
Smell the way my sore eyes burn away/   
That's all that I can have today   
  -- Skunk Anansie, "All I Want"  
xXx

What drives you on can drive you mad -- Garbage, "Stupid Girl"


End file.
